Open mics put passion for performing to the live test

Inside the back room of Murphy's Bleachers, past the barflies and the diners and the regulars tossing beanbags and already berating the Cubs, Megan Corcoran strums an F chord.

A wispy graduate student with light brown hair, she pushes her fingers across the fret board and runs her pick across the strings, trying to capture a full sound with no muted notes.

She's not using the chord in the song she plans to play, a rendition of The Beatles' "Can't Buy Me Love" in the key of A. But after a year of guitar lessons, Corcoran has become a regular at Murphy's open-mic session on Thursday nights.

Learning that little F chord, her first barre chord, means more songs for the crowd.

So do the many who frequent these weekly sessions across the city. Here, a sign-up sheet, a few chords, five minutes and some guts can capture attention and express the kind of creativity built on long hours and acquired skills.

For many in that backroom, that's enough of the spotlight. Like Corcoran, they are people who live responsible lives during the day. One sells cars for a living. Another works construction.

And at night, these people flock to bars and coffee shops across the city, guitar cases at their sides, walking in without demo tapes or promo kits or backup bands. They stand on wooden stages, surrounded by strangers, strum their guitars and sing to the crowd.

"That's the gist of it," says Tony Calderisi, who runs an open mic Tuesday nights at Vaughan's Pub on North Sheffield Avenue. "They just go up, sing their songs and go home. They have a passion to get up and perform. This is an easy way to do it."

While they all have the passion, their motivations differ. Open-mic players usually fall into two categories, with each having its own venues: Open mics at bars cater mostly to hobbyists, people with day jobs who play mostly for fun. Singer-songwriters gravitate to the more traditional coffeehouse sessions, looking to hone their craft and make a career out of music.

The latter's the case at the Monday night open mics at Uncommon Ground in Wrigleyville. On a recent Monday, the restaurant's back room glows from dim light and somber moods. The crowd, many of them musicians in their 20s, sit intently, focused on the guitarist on stage.

Many of the musicians here play their own songs, says Rebecca Rego, 24, of Chicago, partly because they like to practice performing. Also, a contest is held every week, with the crowd's favorite winning a cash prize. Originality counts with this crowd.

"But it's not super cut-throat," Rego says. "A lot of us have become friends and helped each other out with our music. For people who are really serious about their music, this is a really good place to start off."

While their professional dreams may be budding, the talent at Uncommon Ground is in full bloom, as Rego demonstrates once she's on stage. Her left hand dances around the fret board, the result of 10 years of practice. Her right hand fingerpicks the guitar strings in a syncopated, fluid motion.

Her voice warbles as she sings, but it's on key, creating a slight vibrato.

In her song, Rego thanks a former boyfriend for teaching her what a relationship isn't.

"And that's the best thing you ever gave me," she sings.

"Uncommon Ground's session is a contest and they bring in younger, more ambitious players," says Graham Greene, a part-time instructor for the Old Town School of Folk Music and a frequent open-mic performer. "But you'll find that the talented people appear randomly. They don't show up at the same time."

A look into the bar sessions proves Greene's point. Calderisi, the open-mic host at Vaughan's, remembers a college kid with an electric guitar who used to sneak into the bar in the late '90s. He hadn't played much in high school. He had no experience playing in front of audience. He just wanted to learn and become a musician.

Fast forward to 2007. That kid, lead vocalist/guitarist Darren Spitzer, is touring with his band, The Changes. Spitzer says those Tuesday nights at the Lincoln Park bar, playing in front of listless customers, taught him how to play in front of a crowd. Sometimes, those nights were rough.

"It was my first audience experience," Spitzer recalls of his days playing at Vaughan's. "It's not a showcase. No one is listening to you play. But if you play a good song, they'll turn their heads."

While talent and experience range at the bars, the self-serious veneer is traded away for pints of beer, the haze of cigarettes and casual conversation.

At Murphy's in Wrigleyville, performers cluster near the bar and at several small, round tables, chatting with each other between sips of beer. Every few minutes, a Red Line train rumbles above the bar's ceiling. No one notices.